


Dying in LA

by thelotusflower



Category: South Park
Genre: AU, Angst, Band Fic, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, References to Depression, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27624824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelotusflower/pseuds/thelotusflower
Summary: Stan sometimes wishes Crimson Dawn didn’t blow up the way it did.At least he has Kenny by his side.He is not sure what he’d do without him.Band AU
Relationships: (Minor), Stan Marsh/Kenny McCormick, Tweek Tweak/Craig Tucker
Comments: 47
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jewboykahl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jewboykahl/gifts).



> Hello, the summary for this is garbage so if you chose to read this, thanks so much! 
> 
> The title comes from Dying in LA by Panic! At The Disco. Thanks Jewboykahl for the idea of this song being the title of this fic. They encouraged me to write this, and also.... like asked me to write this from my creek one-shot that features Crimson Dawn. This is also gifted to them,,,,,,,,,,, yeah, anyways. Go check out their work, they are awesome. Hope you like this. It’s my first stenny fic so sorry if it sucks.

Stan Marsh sits on a swivel chair with his feet on the desk and notebook in lap. He taps his pencil’s eraser against his chin as stares at the few words he has written down. He is absolutely desperate for some creativity.

He throws his head back and sighs. Just as he does so, his door opens. “Hey, Stanley, are you doing okay?” Kenny barges inside without invitation, as usual. He walks over to his king size bed and sits on the edge. “You’ve been in here for like the last three hours.”

Stan doesn’t look at him, instead just stares at the empty notebooks on his lap; barren of any words or creativity. He lets out a heavy sigh. “No, I can’t think of anything to write.”

“That’s fine, dude,” Kenny says, “You know we don’t care.”

“Really? Cause I think Jimmy cares a lot.”

“Dude, just because he wrote a couple songs... it’s not like he’s opposed to you writing them. He’s just trying to help.”

Stan groans and shuts the notebook. He throws it on the desk and shoves his head into his hands. “I know. I know he is, but it just makes me feel even more shitty.” He pauses. Kenny stares at him from his seat on the bed, feeling quite bad for his friend, roommate, band mate; he’s a lot of things to him. 

“Well.”

Stan picks his head up from his hands and turns his head to frown at his friend. “You’re supposed to say no, you’re not shitty, Stan. That’s completely understandable to feel that way.”

The corner of Kenny’s lips turn up into a smile. “No, you’re not shitty, Stan. That’s completely understandable to feel that way.”

Stan rolls his eyes but lets out a scoff of laughter. “Thanks, you always know what to say.”

“You’re welcome.” Kenny snickers slightly. There is a pause. In that pause, Stan’s grin falls back into a frown and he moves his gaze over to the notebook on the desk. “You know you don’t have to do this to yourself; you can just let Jimmy write them, and not have to worry about it,” Kenny says.

“That makes me feel like shit, though.”

“Dude, you’ve written our last two records,” Kenny says. “You deserve a break.”

Stan just continues to stare longingly at the notebook on his desk, bottom lip pushed out. Kenny frowns. “Let’s go out tonight,” Kenny suggests.

“No. I need to write, dude.”

“Fuck that. You know what they say — write from your own experiences.”

“I have enough experiences.”

“Obviously not.”

Stan glares at him.

Kenny holds up his hands in defense. “I’m just saying, look, shitty experiences from South Park aren’t the kind of experiences I’m talking about.” Kenny stands up to show he is actually serious about going out. “I’m talking about going out — seeing the city. We’re in LA, yet we spend all our time here, or at the stupid record label. I’m so bored, dude. Especially now that I’m sober.”

Stan inhales deeply. He stares at his notebook. The word ‘Sober’ somewhat triggers him. He half-believes that he wrote better when he was drowning in booze everyday, which makes it even harder to stay sober, as does living in LA.

“What are we even going to do? Go to a bar or a club, Kenny? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“No. Obviously not, but — I don’t know. Let’s just go out. Spot some celebrities or some shit. I don’t know, bang some chicks or get some dicks.”

Stan bites the inside of his bottom lip and stares at the notebook on his desk. Maybe Kenny is right. Maybe he needs experience.

“Fine.”

“WooHoo!” Kenny beams up and throws up his arms in excitement. He pulls Stan up by his wrists and a spark ignites between them at the physical contact. Stan gulps. This is not the first time he has ignored this spark.

  
  


They abandon their loft for the crowded streets of LA. It’s a clear night, so the Hollywood Sign is visible enough to see. The weather is cold for California. People walk around them in sweaters and jackets. Although, this is nothing compared to the small mountain town in Colorado, where the band first originated. He and Kenny wear long sleeved shirts and pants in this “cold weather”, and it just stands as another reminder that they are out of place.

“Kenny, where are we going?”

He shrugs. “It’s LA, something interesting is bound to happen.”

“I’m not sure if that’s how it works.”

They walk awhile longer. Kenny drags him into a bubble tea shop, and buys him one. “This tea is supposed to make me write good music?”

“No, the balls are,” Kenny shakes the bubble tea in his hand, the tapioca pearls swirling. “Or you can try my balls? That might be more helpful.”

Stan flushes and shakes his head. He looks down at his own bubble tea. “Shut the fuck up.”

Kenny is not serious with these implications. He is like this with everyone; flirts with anything that moves, even sometimes with things that don’t. Stan should be used to it, he’s known him his whole life. In fact, he used to not think about it all, but lately, he has. 

They continue to walk along the streets of LA, the city alive and awake. He often feels he doesn’t belong here; doesn’t match up with the energy. The glimmering lights on the skyscrapers shine more brightly than the stars; the dark of the night barely noticed under all the light pollution. It’s so much different than where he grew up.

Two girls come up to them, and ask them for their autographs, which Stan and Kenny do not mind. Although, they  _ do _ mind when the paparazzi start to ask questions about their upcoming album, and start capturing unconsented photographs. He and Kenny both flip them off and run through an alley to lose them.

They come across a ladder and Kenny suggests they go up it.

“Dude, no way.”

“Why not? It might lead to the top of this building, or something. It seems like it would be a good view.”

“It’s like two stories up!”

“Chicken?”

“Fuck you.”

“We used to do this shit all the time as kids, dude. We have done way more dangerous stuff than climb a ladder.”

“We aren’t kids anymore, we should be more responsible.”

“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,” Kenny mocks him. He takes a step forward and hoists himself up on the ladder and begins to climb.

“Kenny!” Stan yells and follows with a groan, feeling as though he has no other choice. 

Thankfully, there is not much wind as they ascend up the ladder. Stan does not dare to look down, seriously wondering what the actual fuck is wrong with him to be climbing up this ladder in the first place. 

When they finally get to the top, Stan finally allows himself to peer down. He lets out a huff of air, sort of tired from the climb. “This was a bad idea, dude.”

“Look, stairs,” Kenny points to the corner of the platform they are on. The building ascends even higher, multiple stories higher, in fact. Stan begrudgingly follows his friend. He hasn’t done something random like this in so long. They climb a few flights of stairs until they reach the eighth and final floor. 

Stan nearly dry heaves once they get to the roof. Kenny bends over too, a hand over his chest. Yet, he still makes fun of him. “Wow, aren’t you supposed to be some kind of high school quarterback legend?”

Stan inhales a deep breath and glares at the dirty blonde. Kenny giggles. “That was like, five, years ago now, dickhead. I’ve been too busy writing music and being in a crappy band.”

“Hey, I’m in that band.”

“Exactly my point.”

“Hey, don’t be rude to me, Stanley. I’m your muse.”

“My muse?”

He follows Kenny across the roof stop. It’s gotten slightly more chilly with the elevation; the wind slightly stronger. Kenny makes his way to the edge of the building. Stan follows.

He’s not suicidal, but his mind drifts to the topic of death. He could just jump off and he would be done. It would be that simple to just end it all. “Do you think it makes me fucked up that my first thought is how easy it would be to kill yourself here?”

Kenny turns his head over to him with a perplexed expression. “You okay, dude?”

“Okay, so it makes me fucked up.”

“Do you wanna talk about it? You’re not thinking about killing yourself, right?”

“No,” Stan huffs out a breath. The city is alive and beautiful; the glass buildings reflect off one another, the light of the city causing multiple glares. Store fronts light up with endeavor, begging any tourists to come in to buy a generic shirt that just says LA. “I promise I’m fine, I just wanted to know if it’s fucked up.”

“Well, yeah… it’s fucked up, but I don’t think that means  _ you’re  _ fucked up.”

Stan sighs. He places his hands on the ledge and looks down at the crowds of people that scatter the streets of LA. He wonders how many are residents compared to tourists.

“You know, it’s funny, I always wanted to get out of South Park, but now that I’m gone —,”

“Don’t you dare say you miss it.”

“I miss it.”

“Oh, Stanley,” Kenny shakes his head.

“Is that so bad? It’s where we grew up. We had a lot of good times there.”

“Just because LA sucks, doesn’t mean South Park doesn’t.”

“So then… where does it  _ not  _ suck? Does it just suck everywhere?” Stan humorlessly laughs, eyeing the male next to him.

There is a brief pause where Kenny just looks at Stan with a slightly furrowed brow and downturned lips. “And you  _ don’t  _ want me to worry about you?”

“I’m  _ fine,”  _ he promises. Before Kenny can inspect him any further, he looks away. “I just thought once I left I would be happier, or at least, happier once I’ve achieved my dreams. It just sucks because at least back then I had dreams to fill.”

Silence takes them. Stan knows Kenny has demons of his own, but he has been doing a lot better, and he sort of feels bad for dragging him back down in his own personal bullshit. “I’m sorry. I’m… being depressing.”

“No, dude, it’s fine. I like when you talk like this, it turns me on,” Kenny smirks at him.

Stan shakes his head with a chuckle. Kenny’s smirk fades back into a straight line. “Also, I rather you talk to me than suffer inside your own head.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m always here for you, dude. I hope you know that.”

Stan curtly nods back to his friend; a recurrence of intense emotion for him coming forth as he stares into his chestnut eyes.

Stan let’s out a deep breath as he returns his gaze to the city below them. “Sometimes I think Kyle was right about college.”

“Fuck that,” Kenny responds instantly. “I rather be ambushed everyday by the paparazzi than deal with that shit.”

Stan chuckles, but he is still not so sure. Their mutual friend Kyle seems happy as a law student, or as happy as any law student could be, he supposes. He seems better off.

They stand on the roof until it becomes even too cold for them, and while Kenny begs to continue their  _ adventure,  _ Stan’s ready to head home.

When he gets back, he’s able to write out few words, but it’s different from his usual lyrics. He has a feeling neither Jimmy, nor the rest of his band mates, or  _ manager _ , will approve it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends,
> 
> THANK U SO MUCH!!!! I was so nervous and still am because stenny is still new to me, but thanks for the amazing feedback <3
> 
> I would like to say thanks again, to my spouse, Jewboykahl. They are my absolutely everything...................... and THEY WROTE THE INCREDIBLE, PLATINUM WORTHY, OUTSTANDING SONG THAT STAN WROTE IN THIS... so, please either give your love to them in the comments, or go to their page, or send them $5000 because they deserve it. <3 I could NEVER! Anyways, I’m excited for you to see the song.

He has little strength in him to get out of bed; let alone, go all the way to the recording studio, but, alas, he has no choice. He’s sold his soul to the devil for the foreseeable future.

As he presses snooze on his alarm clock for the third or fourth time, his bedroom door springs open. “Cockdoodledoo, bitch!” Kenny rejoices, his hand curved around his mouth.

“You know, you really should stop barging in here all the time. What if I slept naked, or was changing, or something?” Stan looks over to his overly energetic friend.

“All the more reason, then,” Kenny smirks with a shrug. The honey blonde strides over, and pulls the duvet off his tired friend, “besides, I have known you since preschool — you don’t sleep naked.”

“I could have changed my mind since then,” Stan challenges, looking up at his friend from his place on his pillow.

“I’m not lucky enough to catch you naked, Marsh,” Kenny lets out a sigh, doing a once over of his body before he drops the duvet around the other man’s ankles. He hopes Kenny is too busy checking out the rest of his body to see his burning cheeks. “Now, get up. Cartman is going to have a bitch fit if we are late again.”

“Fuck him. Let him waste his money.”

“You know he takes it out of our accounts, dude.”

Stan brings an extra pillow over his face and screams. He would not hate his life so much if he hadn’t signed a deal with the Devil, i.e., his manager, Eric Cartman.

“There, there,” Kenny pats him on the shoulder and plants himself next to his torso. “It’s going to be okay,” he says, his tone rather dry for the words.

He used to show up to the recording studio drunk at 11 am. It was a lot easier that way, but it seems the easy thing is always the wrong thing.

“Fine,” he uncovers himself from the pillow. “I’ll get up.”

“There you go, sweet cheeks,” Kenny pats his cheek with a cheeky grin. It makes his heart palpitate for some reason.

Kenny leaves him be, and he gets ready for the day as slow as he can, really in no rush to see their manager or record any music that Jimmy has written for them. He considers going back to bed, but he knows Kenny would just barge back in for a second time, and force him back up.

When they get to the recording studio, Cartman, to no one’s surprise, has a complete bitch fit about them being late. After the manager controls himself, he asks Stan to show him what he has written. 

Stan hands him the notebook and Cartman scowls at the pages as he reads them. 

_ Down To Earth  _

_ maybe I’m just fucked up  _

_ I don't smile enough _

_ I never had a reason to live before  _

_ this happened  _

_ even now it’s a challenge  _

_ another day  _

_ another night  _

_ but it's alright when I’m with you _

_ I always knew before  _

_ there was something more _

_ cause when I'm lost out in space  _

_ its the look on your face that brings me  _

_ back down _

_ because you  _

_ you are my tether  _

_ you make me better  _

_ when I'm sky high and you look me in the eye  _

_ you bring me back down to earth  _

_ it's true, and you don't even know  _

_ you are the afterglow  _

_ when I'm lost out in space its the look on your face  _

_ that brings me back down to earth  _

_ maybe it’s all too fucked  _

_ maybe I'm just starstruck _

_ I never had a reason to tell you before  _

_ this happened  _

_ another look  _

_ another glance  _

_ do I even stand a chance with you  _

_ I think I knew before  _

_ there was so much more _

_ in your eyes is all hope  _

_ oh, they bring me home _

_ it’s true that you _

_ you are my tether  _

_ you make me better  _

_ when I'm sky high and you look me in the eye  _

_ you bring me back down to earth  _

_ it's true, and you don't even know  _

_ you are my afterglow  _

_ when I'm lost out in space its the look on your face  _

_ that brings me back down to earth  _

_ you're the sunrise  _

_ you're day, I'm night _

_ you bring out the brighter side of me _

_ you're all the stars  _

_ you're near, I'm far  _

_ you bring draw me in, make me feel again _

_ you are my tether  _

_ you make me better  _

_ when I'm falling through the sky, you’re by my side _

_ you catch save me from falling  _

_ you save me from the city  _

_ trying to bury me _

_ yeah, it's true, and you don't even know  _

_ you are my afterglow  _

_ when I'm lost out in space its the look on your face  _

_ that brings me back down to earth  _

_ you bring me back down to earth _

“What in the gay, ass, emo shit is this?”

Stan hits the roof of his mouth with his tongue and exhales. “It’s all I could come up with. I don’t know.”

“It’s shit,” Cartman pushes the notebook into the raven-haired boy’s chest. “Do I look like a garbage man to you, Stan?”

“You look like a fat asshole,” he counters flatly.

“Aye! I’m not — it doesn’t matter. Respect my authority, Marsh. Remember I own you,” he narrows his heterochromatic eyes onto him. Stan doesn’t know how he ever liked this guy enough to sign with him. “And respecting my authority means not wasting my time with this garbage!” His manager shouts in his face. 

Cartman toddles away and leaves the band be, which is at least one good thing, but Stan still stings from injury. He really shouldn’t care what Cartman thinks, and yet, he does. Kenny comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Just so you know, I personally love gay, ass, emo shit.”

Stan offers him a half-smile.

“May I see?” Kenny puts out his palm.

Stan hands it to him and watches as he skims over the lyrics. He raises his eyebrows. “You wrote this last night?” Kenny asks, eyes still focused on the notebook.

“Yeah… after we got back. I guess you really are my muse,” he lets out a nervous chuckle as he scratches the back of his neck. He sucks in a deep breath, and Kenny meets his sapphire eyes with a tender half-smile and soft auburn eyes.

After a moment though, the look is replaced by a mischievous smirk. “You know… I hear sleeping with your muses can help even more.”

“Shut up,” he immediately says without even really considering it. He looks down and briefly wonders what would happen if he went along with Kenny's flirtations. Would Kenny sleep with him? He doubts it.

Kenny returns his amber eyes to the notebook, which Stan is grateful for because he is sure he is red. He needs to get this new habit of blushing under control.

“This is incredible, dude, I mean, yeah, it’s a little different than our normal stuff, but it’s really good, Marsh. Really… it’s beautiful.” He locks his solemn eyes onto his friend. “Cartman wouldn’t know good music if Elvis Presley rose from his grave, and wrote him a personal ballad. You can’t listen to him.”

A small, barely visible smile reaches across Stan’s face at the compliment; his chest swelling up with gratitude for his friend. Suddenly, Cartman’s insults don’t matter much to him anymore. “Thanks, but I don’t know… it doesn’t matter. It’s not the type of music we play.”

“Not everything’s about the band, ya know,” Kenny hands him the notebook back and meets him in the eyes. “You can write for yourself. Isn’t that what you used to do in high school?”

Stan takes the notebook back and sifts his fingers through the pages. “I don’t remember the last time I did that.”

“Maybe you should give it a try.”

Before Stan can say something in return, a voice cuts in.

“Can we please get started? We are almost an hour behind schedule now,” the speaker goes off. Stan and Kenny both turn their heads to the face of the voice; their recording engineer, Craig. 

They both let out a huff of air and go to their designated positions in the recording studio. He realizes now that he hasn’t said a single word all morning to the other band members. He wonders if anyone actually wants to be here, or even wants this band to exist at all.

Everything they record is garbage. Their producer, Token, doesn’t say it in those exact words, but, more or less, does when he says, “how about we take a break and come back in an hour?”

Without waiting for a response, Token leaves the recording studio and the band groans. It’s probably the most in sync they’ve been the entire session. Jimmy and Leo ditch without saying a word, leaving Stan with Kenny. Well, Kenny and their recording engineer, Craig.

Kenny gives Stan a lopsided smile before he retreats from the recording room to the control room. Stan follows.

Kenny takes a seat on one of the chairs next to Craig, who is on his phone, looking furiously annoyed, although he kind of always does. Stan leans against the wall with his arms crossed. He lets out a quiet exhale.

“You guys wanna Postmate something?”

Craig inhales sharply, his eyes glued to his phone still. “No, Tweek is meeting me for a lunch date. It was supposed to be a dinner date, but clearly, we are going to be here for the rest of the night, so we had to reschedule.”

“Great!” Kenny beams, completely ignoring the other male’s sarcasm and annoyance. Stan smirks at the display. “Stanley and I would love to join you.”

Craig shoots him a glare. “Did you not hear me say date?”

“Yes, and in response, I say, double date. Me, you, your hubby, and Stan over there. Maybe we can even do some swingers stuff, I’m open to anything,” Kenny winks at the male. “And I think we’re all pretty hot.”

Craig huffs out a bit of air and locks his gaze onto his phone again. “Don’t you ever get tired of the flirty jokes?”

“Who says I’m joking?”

Stan watches the whole exchange closely. It’s neither the first time Kenny’s flirted with Craig nor the first time Kenny’s involved, Stan. Stan doesn’t mind. It’s pretty amusing. He just often wonders if there is any semblance behind it. Kenny has expressed his attraction to Craig multiple times. He says broody, dark-haired men are his type, which is exactly what Craig is. Then again, he says almost everyone is his type, including Craig’s husband, who is nearly the exact opposite of the recording engineer.

Kenny orders Postmates for the two left standing, while Craig waits for his husband to arrive. When he gets into close enough proximity, Kenny says, “we’ll go down with you! We need to meet the Postmate guy, anyway, and Stan and I could use some fresh air.”

“Stan could use some fresh air?” Stan gives his friend a pointed look.

“Yes, Stanley, you could use some fresh air.”

Even though it slightly irks him that Kenny makes this decision for him, he knows he's right. “Without Kyle around, you’ve really stepped into position the mom friend,” Stan relinquishes. "I think Kyle would be proud.

“Thanks. It’s great practice for the future after I marry a rich man, and become a stay at home wife.” 

As they push through the doors of the record label building — the warm sunlight hitting against him instantly as they step outside —he realizes how right Kenny was. He inhales the fresh air and feels like it’s the first breath of air he’s taken since stepping inside the recording studio.

On the sidewalk, stands Craig’s husband. He is nearly the exact opposite to him, both in appearance and personality; blonde, curly hair, and lighter eyes which appear brown or green depending on the light. He’s shorter than their recording engineer, but then again, everyone is.

Craig strides forward to put his arm around his husband’s shoulders.

The normal grumpy recording engineer’s entire persona changes whenever he's around his husband. While everyone else seems to have an issue getting the recording engineer to smile, his husband doesn’t.

Although, Craig frowns once his husband starts to dive into conversation with the two band members.

“Hey, Kenny, Stan,” the blonde nods to them. “What’s up with you guys?” 

Craig groans at this and places his forehead on his husband’s shoulder. “Honey, come on, we have less than an hour, we need to get going.”

Tweek sends him a very fierce glare before returning his eyes to the two bandmates. “As I said, what’s up with you guys?”

Stan and Kenny both snicker, always enjoying the display of Tweek shooting their recording engineer down with just a look.

“Oh, you know, living the dream,” Kenny smirks and shoves his hands into his jean pockets.

It’s weird to Stan that the statement is… true. This was once their dream. It’s been a long time since then though.

“Just trying to get through the day without wrapping an electric cord around my neck,” Stan says, half-serious. 

“Oh, so, just another typical day,” Tweek grins with a breath of laughter. 

“Pretty much,” Stan nods.

After a minute two or longer of conversation, the recording engineer succeeds in pulling his husband away, leaving Stan and Kenny alone. 

The pair take a seat on the garden ledge and wait for their Postmates order to arrive. As they wait, it occurs to Stan that he doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for. “What did you even get me?” He asks. “You didn’t even ask.”

“I don’t have to. I know what you want — a triple-decker, right?”

Stan scowls at his friend. Kenny barks out in laughter. “I’m kidding, I got you that wrap from that one place you like.”

Even though the vague details, Stan knows what he means. “From the vegan place?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you get yourself?”

“Some cauliflower wings, and some other thing — I don’t remember. It looked pretty good though.”

“You always say vegan shit upsets your stomach.”

“It does — my body still isn’t used to nutrition after only eating cheesy puffs and bacon fat for my whole childhood, but,” he shrugs. “You like it, so, I figured why not? Plus if I get sick, maybe we’ll go home early.”

Stan processes the information. Has Kenny always been this thoughtful? Is he changing, or is Stan just now noticing? Kenny’s always been a great friend, but this small gesture touches him like no other.

“Well, thanks, dude. I guess… win-win then.”

“My point exactly.”

Once their food arrives, they stay put on the ledge to eat. Kenny raves up the food. If he secretly hated it, Stan wouldn't know. “Wow, these are probably the best wings I’ve had in LA.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“No, for real, try one,” Kenny pushes the styrofoam carryout box forward. 

Stan picks one up and bites into it. “It’s good,” he nods, still chewing. “As shitty as LA is, they know how to make good vegan food.”

“Sometimes I think City Wok was vegan — I honest-to-God don’t think that shit they used was real meat.”

Stan breaks into a laugh and nearly chokes on the wing. He swallows and coughs slightly. “Well, you did work there, so you’d know.”

As the conversation falls into silence, Stan’s thoughts gravitate to the recording engineer and his husband, and also, his previous relationship in South Park. “You know Tweek and Craig started dating in like fourth grade?”

“Yeah, I follow Tweek on Instagram, like everyone else in LA.” 

Tweek is a social media influencer. If he remembers correctly, Kenny may have even followed him on social media before Craig was hired.

“That’s like…. me and Wendy.”

Kenny gives him a pointed look. “Dude.”

“I’m just saying — ya know if we were still dating right now — it would be us.” Stan looks down at the carryout box in his lap. His wrap is almost all the way gone. “And it seemed to work out for them.”

Kenny shakes his head, “you sure got a way of romanticizing the past, dude.”

“How am I —,”

“Dude, you guys had sex, like, once a year, on your anniversary, and barely talked to each other in between. You had the chemistry of a tire and roadkill.”

“... who's the roadkill?”

Kenny shakes his head once. “You’re hopeless, Stan Marsh.” He sighs slightly. “That’s not the point. Why would you even want to still be in a relationship that dry?”

He shrugs. A line of traffic forms on the street before them, multiple horns going off. “I mean, it’s kind of the only one I’ve been in… and I don’t know, it was comfortable… I feel like now that I’m famous, or whatever, it’s too late.”

“That’s stupid,” Kenny narrows his eyes onto his friend. Stan ganders into his friend’s amber eyes, surprised by his sharp tone and intensity of his glare.

“It’s just… I don’t know. I feel like it’s hard to trust who wants to be with you for you, ya know?”

“I don’t think it’s as hard as you think.”

Kenny turns away right after he says it. The statement creates an odd bubble of tension between the pair until Kenny adds, “but my dick is hard from all this talk about romance… You wanna fix that, Marsh, or do you wanna drop the topic? I don’t think my balls can handle much more of this.”

Stan laughs, but he’s still stuck on what Kenny said before. “Jesus. What doesn’t turn you on?”

“Roadkill,” he turns to the other male to wink. Stan laughs again but is more focused on the way his stomach does a little flip at the wink.

A little while later, they return to the recording studio, along with everyone else. Craig predicted it right; the recording session consumes the majority of their evening. When they finally do leave, the sun has long parted, replaced with the soft glow of the city at night.

Oddly enough, when they get back to the loft, Stan finds himself with his notebook and pencil; his muse in mind. He takes his muse's advice, and for the first time, in a long time, he writes for himself.

Little does he know that he writes for someone else too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF YOU SKIPPED OVER MY NOTES AT THE BEGINNING THIS IS A REMINDER THAT JEWBOYKAHL WROTE “DOWN TO EARTH” please shower them with love. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, so,.... i love my husand jewboykahl... that is all!
> 
> also thanks everyone for reading / commenting/ kudos :) sorry for the long wait for an update!

Stan watches the interview play out in front of him, Jimmy completely taking the lead for every question. Stan used to pride himself as the leader of the band, but it's clear to him now that if Jimmy hasn’t already stolen the spot, he’s planning to. 

He is partially angry, but mostly just grateful to be able to blank out during the interview.

He once enjoyed the interviews — he loved discussing their music and the inspiration for the lyrics, but he has written nothing on this upcoming album to even discuss. Cartman deemed his only potential song garbage, and since then he has been reluctant to try to write anything for the band.

He has, though, taken Kenny’s advice and began writing for himself. None of it is suitable for Crimson Dawn though. Stan knows this without insult from their manager.

As they sit in an over-priced brunch place in the middle of LA; everyone at the table drinking mimosas and eating meat by-products, Stan just sort of wants to drown in the puddle of syrup he pours onto his vegan-pancakes. That’s one good thing about LA, they offer vegan food almost anywhere you go.

“Mr. Marsh,” the reporter says, causing Stan’s eyes to lift from his heavily drenched pancakes. He has no idea what the conversation just was, so he prays this is not a follow-up. “You seem to be doing a lot better.”

Stan scrunches his face slightly at the words, setting down the syrup bottle by his plate. His fingers are slightly sticky, and he resists the urge to just wipe them off on his t-shirt. “Um. Since when?” He wants to tell the woman that this is, in fact, one of the worst slumps he’s been in in a while, but he keeps his mouth shut. That's not what she wants to hear.

“We had an interview last year — don’t you remember? You were wasted... at 11 am.”

Stan winces at the words, looking down at the pancakes. Last year was the lowest of his lows. He doesn't remember her or the interview she references, but he does remember getting screamed at by Cartman for doing that same thing multiple different times.

“Hey, fuck you,” Kenny barks out to the reporter.

“Excuse me?” the reporter beckons.

“I said fuck you. Stan is doing a whole lot better now, yeah, so why the fuck are you reminding him of the times he wasn’t?”

The reporter blinks, unsure how to respond. Jimmy quickly cuts in, once again, saving the day. “W-we are all very happy that Stan is doing better.”

Stan is not entirely sure how true that statement is. Ever since he got sober, every single thing he writes for Crimson Dawn is garbage. Eric is not happy for him, and if his bandmates, minus Kenny, are happy for him, they sure have a funny way of showing it by blatantly avoiding him.

Jimmy, charming and smooth, saves the conversation, and it advances; the interaction with Stan just a mere bump in the road. Stan’s recovering alcoholism is just a bump in the road to some people, while to Stan, it is a complete blow to the whole fucking road. The road isn’t even there anymore for Stan, he is just walking aimlessly, attempting to find his way when he’s completely ruined the easy route. It's all his fault too, he's the one who attached dynamite in his pathway.

Luckily for him, at least, the reporter ignores him for the rest of the interview, obviously feeling too awkward to probe into his personal life any further.

Once the interview ends, Jimmy and Butters walk the reporter out. Stan is pretty sure at least one of them wants to fuck her. He is surprised Kenny doesn’t try. She is pretty fucking hot, despite being a total bitch. He supposes that is probably why Kenny doesn’t try. He’s a loyal friend.

As if he is reading his thoughts, Kenny says, “man, so... she was a raging bitch.” Kenny picks up his orange juice and takes a long, hard sip, almost knocking out half of it. “Like, what the fuck is wrong with people? What the fuck if she triggered you, and you fell back into it?”

Stan shrugs. “Maybe I would be happier if I did.”

“Dude, are you okay? Seriously... you’re beginning to worry me.”

Stan eyes his mostly eaten pancakes. His stomach is full but he severely hates wasting food. “Will you help me finish these?” Stan requests.

“Only if you finish this conversation.”

Stan sighs. He stabs his fork into the pancake, determined to make the plate clear. “The conversation is pointless.”

“What makes you say something that stupid?”

“Because...” Stan shoves the forkful of pancake in his mouth. He chews, considering his thoughts. He doesn’t want to worry Kenny, but he is also way too tired to even try to lie. He swallows. “I am going to feel this way forever. It’s just... how my brain functions, and there is no point in trying to fucking get it. I’m just a miserable person, and you should probably just stop hanging out with me if you don’t want to be sucked down the black hole with me.”

Kenny lets out a dry laugh. “You think I belong with anyone but you, Marsh? We are both fucked up. It’s why we work so well together," Kenny says, nudging an elbow to his ribcage. 

He mulls over the words. It’s true, in a way. He used to think Kyle was the person who most understood him. He was sure that if anyone could map out the contents of his brain, it would be his ginger-haired friend, but as he thinks now of what Kenny says, his mind begins to change. Maybe it's Kenny.

Kenny stabs at the rest of the pancakes on Stan’s plate, “plus you’re fucking hot, and I still have failed to get in your pants, so... Can't pull out now. This fifteen-year plan is long in the making.” 

He says it so casually; the words just slipping right out of his tongue as he pulls the forkful of pancakes in his mouth. Stan doesn’t get it — how he can say such provocative things in such a relaxed manner. He doesn’t understand how once it was funny; how once he could even play along, but now, he just feels awkward and hot whenever Kenny makes such inferences.

He avoids his gaze as he grabs his water, dowing the liquid contents in an attempt to cool himself down. 

It sort of works until Kenny makes another sexual joke, and then he is just back where he started, extremely hot and bothered, but most of all, intrigued by Kenny's "jokes."

xxx

He stares at his bottle of anti-depressants with disdain in his eyes. He skipped his dosage the night before and debates to skip it again. He isn’t sure why he hates the pills as much as he does. He knows they have helped him, but he also just feels like they have stolen an aspect of himself. He only started them several months prior; a couple of months before he got sober. The pills acted as a booster for the alcohol; the effects larger and heavier with the pills in his system. The pills and the alcohol worked together to make him fucked up as possible.

He once liked them for this reason, but now he just holds complete disdain for them; constantly wondering who the fuck he was before taking them, and never quite figuring it out. He feels like they are slowly just scraping away at his entire personality and mind; feeling dulled and somewhat numb from them. 

He knows they help, but he hates that he has to rely on them to be a functioning human. He feels like they mock him, and he just wants to beat them. He wants to prove that he’s stable enough without them, but the grim facts are that he’s not. The pills rule him. The anti-depressants control his life and he is nothing but a prisoner to them.

Even though he is fully aware that he will lose this battle, he doesn’t take his dosage for the night, the second time in a row missing it. He knows this is going to majorly fuck with his emotions, but the idea of swallowing the pill right now seems nearly fatal.

Instead of taking the antidepressants, he lays in bed, pulling out his phone to ogle at social media. It is surely is not the answer, as most of the time it just makes him feel worse. If it's not some rumored gossip about him, it's everyone else just being fucking  _ happy _ .

He scrolls through Instagram, landing on a photo posted by Tweek. In the photo, Tweek appears to be giggling, and Craig is kissing his cheek. They appear to be in bed. It’s cute, but also makes Stan want to barf a little, both from jealousy and cheesiness. A very, very long text post is attached. Stan skims over it. Tweek discusses his battle with anxiety, drug abuse, and childhood trauma; thanking his husband for standing beside him through it all.

It makes him incredibly sad for some reason. Stan can’t imagine finding someone who would ever want to put up with all his emotional baggage. Craig doesn't even seem like the type of guy to do so. It often seems like Craig is already fed up with them the second they walk through the studio. He does not seem like the type to be so doting and thoughtful. It makes his stomach twist. 

Just as he is about to sink further down into the abyss, his door swings open, revealing Kenny. 

He needs to get a lock.

Kenny turns on the lights, making him wince at the light exposure. He covers his eyes with his hand. “Dude,” Stan says, “I was sleeping,” he lies.

“It’s like 9:30?” Kenny says.

“I’m tired.”

“Well, this will wake you up,” Kenny decrees, sauntering over to Stan’s king-size bed. Kenny dismisses all the empty space of the bed and sits right next to him, their thighs and hips nearly touching.

“There is fanfiction of us.”

“What is fanfiction?”

“You know... when two people ship two other people together and they write about it?”

“Ship?”

Kenny rolls his eyes, “you’re so un-hip. It’s when you like two people together, dummy," the blonde raps his knuckles against Stan's forehead, blinking him flinch. 

Stan ponders this, eyebrows shifting together. “And people ship us? And write about it?”

“Yeah,” Kenny confirms. “Tweek told me about it; a lot of people write about him and Craig. Apparently, Craig secretly loves it, but won’t admit it, so naturally, I printed out a dozen different stories to recite to him on Monday.”

“Naturally,” Stan agrees with a smirk. One of Kenny's favorite pastimes is to annoy their recording engineer. He doesn't have to try very hard though. Craig gets annoyed about almost everything.

“And then I jerked off to a couple of them because they were fucking hot. Tweek even told me that sometimes they try out kinks they read in the fanfiction about them, and that made me jerk off to them some more, because damn, that's pretty kinky..."

Stan feels uneasy at this, pushing in his eyebrows. “Um... okay. That’s cool.” He wonders if Kenny actually jerked off to the thought of them or not. It’s damn near impossible to know when he is joking.

“Anyways, after I jerked it, I found fanfictions of us, and I jerked it again!”

He decides that he is kidding about everything after this statement; also he just refuses to believe Kenny could jack off that many times in a row.

Although, Kenny proves there  _ is _ fanfiction of them by pulling it up on his phone. Stan stares at an 87k word fanfiction called “Distastefully in Love”, where he and Kenny start with mutual hatred and then fall in love.

“I started this one, and it’s really good.”

Stan shakes his head and pushes the phone back to Kenny. “I don’t think I want to read this stuff.”

“Is it because I’m with you? Am I making you all nervous while you read about us falling in love?” Kenny smirks at him, eyelashes fluttering. 

Stan’s heart nearly stops as he says, “no. Just... it’s weird.”

Kenny sighs and slides off the bed. “Your loss. I’ll send you the link though just in case you change your mind,” Kenny winks at him, yet again causing his heart to palpitate. 

He's always known Kenny to be attractive, but right now, in his cargo pants and a bright orange hoody - curly hair almost long enough to brush past his shoulders, he is nearly stunned. He doesn't know how or why Kenny is spending his night jerking it to fanfiction when he could clearly get with any single person he ever wanted. 

Kenny leaves his room, leaving the light on, which makes Stan groan. 

He _really_ needs a lock.


	4. Nobody Likes You When You’re 23

Just as Kenny promised, he brings in _creek_ fan fiction the next day to read to Craig. As Kenny recites, _“Tweek was an ethereal, glowing person, while Craig was the opposite; grumpy, pessimistic, and broody. Tweek brought out the best in his partner, whom was was dead-set on hating everyone and having no friends,”_

“It _does not_ say that,” Craig grabs the paper in Kenny’s hand, scanning over the words with a glower.

Kenny laughs, “oh _yes,_ it does,” he points to the words on the page.

Craig glares at them, “this is BS.” The recording engineer leans back in his seat and covers his arms over his chest.

“I think it’s pretty accurate,” Stan inputs with a laugh from the inside of the recording studio. Craig returns his input with a middle finger, and Kenny continues to flip through the pages in his hands. He’s surprised that Craig is allowing him to read any of this, instead of pushing them to begin the session, but he says he is waiting for the new assistant recording engineer to arrive. They have been trying to hire one for the last couple months, as the last one got fired for leaking information to the press about some other artist’s album.

“A lot of them really depict you as the problem starter in the relationship, and I for one, _agree.”_

Craig shifts his middle finger to Kenny.

“ _Although,_ a lot of these also go into _wide_ description of how hot you are, which I _also_ agree with,”

“Fuck off. I’m done listening to this shit, get in the recording studio, McCormick,”

“But I haven’t even gotten to the _smut_ yet,” He pouts.

“What the fuck is _smut?”_

“It’s you and Tweek doing the do,”

Craig scowls. “As if the fanart isn’t enough,” he shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Hey, don’t feel so special, there is also fan fiction of me and Stan. I printed some of that out for you too because, lets be honest, we are both hot as _fuck,_ and it would be impossible to sit here all day without fantasizing about us,” Kenny drops the load of papers to the recording engineer.

Craig’s glare on Kenny does not falter. “ _No._ Get in the recording studio,”

“Oh, it’s so _hot_ when you tell me what to do,” Kenny winks at him before retreating into the studio. He does not miss Craig’s annoyed huff. It makes him smirk. One of his favorite things in the world is pissing off the recording engineer, but his absolute _favorite_ thing in the world to do is anything resolving Stan Marsh.

He smiles at him as he walks into the studio; his smile being returned with equal tenderness. He is not sure when he fell for this man. It was a slow and long realization, but upon realization, he hasn’t been able to let the strong feeling go.

He has spent many nights wondering if Stan feels the same. His heart was filled with doubt, up until the other day when Stan showed him the song he wrote. He feels like it was a passage into Stan’s soul. It gives him hope that maybe his feelings are reciprocated.

He’s always been very well at reading people. He spent most of his childhood quiet and observing those around him. It’s easy for him to understand that Jimmy thinks he’s better than this band and that Butters feels under appreciated. It’s _easier_ to see that Craig actually does enjoy his job under all the complaints and attitude, and it’s _easiest_ to know Cartman is only in it for the money.

With Stan’s feelings for him though, it feels a little fuzzy. He thinks Stan may not even know. He’s thinks Stan is going through an depressive episode. He has been suffering from chronic depression since they were children, and while Kenny always did his best to help him out, he never could stop Stan from spiraling. It made him sad, and Kenny is even worried that Stan will fall back into drinking.

For now, he puts his feelings aside because he wants to be there for the man. He knows how hard it is to battle addiction, and while Kenny has had his fair share struggles of staying clean, he’s been clean longer than Stan’s been sober. He just wants to help Stan through it. He wants him to know he is here for him. He still holds guilt over the times he was too occupied with drugs to help his friend before. Addiction is a disgusting thing.

“That went better than expected,” Stan murmurs to him with a small grin still equipped to his lips. “I was sure he was going to give you a bloody nose.”

“Hey the face is where the money is — even Tucker knows that,”

Stan laughs and looks away. Kenny thinks he spots blush on his face, but he isn’t positive.

“C-Can we p-please get started?” The drummer asks.

“Hell to the yeah,” Kenny responds. He sees Stan roll his eyes at the drummer, which he understands, but he just wants to keep the band in harmony. They are bounded together by a contract to finish this album.

He doesn’t understand why Cartman was so against Stan’s brilliant song, when the few songs that Jimmy wrote have been ranging close to pop-rock, almost. Which is definitely a new style for them as well. He thinks Cartman is just a money craving dumb ass. Stan’s song deserves to be on every single radio station and streaming on every musical platform.

They begin the session, and fifteen minutes in, the new assistant recording engineer finally arrives with the studio manager, Bebe Stevens. She saunters inside in her red high heals and long curly blonde hair, a brilliant smile on her face.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Bebe apologizes.

Kenny is the first one to respond, speaking into his mic, “never apologize, sweetheart.”

She pays him a graceful smile before saying, “this is Clyde Donovan, he will be the new recording engineer assistant.”

Craig looks over with a frown to the smiling brunette, “you’re late.”

“I’m _sorry,_ ” he says, “god, it was terrible — the traffic in LA is just, like, nothing ever seen before, dude.”

“Yeah, we’re familiar with it…” Craig glowers at him.

Kenny speaks into his mic again, “ _dead-set on hating everyone and having no friends_ seems pretty accurate to me, Tucker.”

  
Again, Craig throws a middle finger to him. Kenny snickers alongside Stan, while the others grow impatient. Craig begins to explain things to Clyde and gets them recording again. Clyde seems pretty slow with things and Craig is the least bit patient with them. This annoys Jimmy, who was already in a bad mood prior. Jimmy’s mood affects Stan’s mood, who grimaces every time the drummer makes a comment.

At the half-day mark, when Craig says, “okay… we need to do that again,” about a certain part of the song, Butters seems to have his fit of the day.

“Are you kidding me? We have ran through this three times!”

“It doesn’t sound right,” argues Craig.

“Maybe it’s just the song…” Stan mumbles.

“W-What the fuck is matter with the s-song, Marsh?”

Stan glowers behind him at Jimmy. “Nothing. It’s just sort of a different style than our usual stuff…”

“Well, since it’s by a different _p-pe_ rson, that makes s-sense,” Jimmy counters back, his eyes narrowed.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It’s just _f-f-fact,”_ Jimmy spits back.

  
“Guys. Can we please get back to it?” Craig groans.

Stan and Jimmy both ignore the recording engineer. Stan walks over to the drummer, glaring at him. “Okay? And? Tell me what you really think, Valmer. I know you’re holding back,” he crosses his arms.

“You r-really want to know what I think?”

“I did just ask.”

“I think that you’re j-j-jealous because you’re n-not the c-center of attention for once, for o-one a-area, and you c-can’t take it not being a-about you.”

“Fuck you, Valmer.”

“Fuck you, Marsh!” Butters calls from across the studio. “Just get it together, so we can finish. You’re the one who is _off_ and why we have to keep recording,”

“Hey, Butters, lay off,” Kenny steps in, putting a hand up to the guitarist.

  
Butters shoots him a glare. “No, Ken, you always defend him and are never willing to admit he is in the wrong. Jesus — God damn you all! I just want to get this album finished!”

But contradicting to his words, Butter slams his guitar down and stomps out of the studio, ignoring Craig as he asks where he is going. Jimmy glares at the pair standing in the studio, then grabs his crutches and makes his exit as well, again, ignoring the recording engineer as he demands that he comes back.

Kenny sighs at the display. He can’t even enjoy how annoyed Craig is either. The recording engineer bows his head into his hands and sets his elbows on the counter top.

“Wow, this is like reality TV,” the new assistant engineer says with wide eyes. Craig picks his head up to glare at him before returning to his previous position.

Stan shakes his head and looks to Kenny. “Fucking assholes.”

Kenny exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “I guess on the bright side, we’re done for the day.”

At this, he hears Craig _groan,_ and Stan nods. “I guess so.”

He and Stan leave the studio, leaving Craig to have to explain things to their producer, Token.

X.

  
He suggests to Stan that they go to the park. He knows if they go back to the loft, Stan will just mope all day; possibly leading him closer to a relapse. As they walk to the park, silence consumes them. He can feel Stan’s angry energy radiating off him. Even though he knows Stan is partially responsible for what just happened, he still feels loyal to him. He knows Stan is going through a rough time and blames himself for struggle of coming up with any _approved_ songs.

He wishes the others understood his motives and actions better, but whenever Stan becomes depressed, even when he does not act out but just concoves into himself, people often think of him as a douche. Kenny sees past this. He sees that the loving, kind Stan is at the pit of his depression, desperate to find his way out.

Sensing Stan’s desire to _not_ talk, Kenny pulls his AirPods out of his pocket and hands one to him. Stan glances at it him with a curious look before putting it in his ear. Kenny does the same and pulls out his phone to play _What’s My Age Again_? by Blink 182.

Stan peers over to him with a small smile. Blink 182 was one of the bands they grew up listening to. It was one of their inspirations for starting their own band.

“Nobody likes you when you’re 23, dude,” Kenny smirks at him and nudges him in the rib cage.

Stan laughs and looks away, bowing his head down and allowing a smile to hold on his beautiful face. Kenny stares for a moment longer to appreciate the smile before turning his gaze to the sidewalk in front of them.

The two men continue to listen to music as they walk; Stan’s mood becoming better and better as they do. If Kenny can reach him through anything, it’s music.


	5. Cut Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! Thanks for reading :)

He lays on his bed, laptop on his chest. He looks up _Crimson Dawn_ and finds the interview they did about a week ago at the breakfast diner. His heart sputters at the title, _Another Washed Up Band?_ He scowls as he clicks on it, skimming over the paragraphs and inserted blocks of dialogue. Of course, the reporter does not include the part where she brought up his addiction. Hollywood acts like they care so much about their stars, when in reality, they just want to know all their business. When he first entered rehab, his news was over every headline. It sickens him to the core and he often wonders if these people have any decency.

The reporter describes the band as _“disconnected and cold.”_ While she is maybe _right_ about that, considering he has not even _looked_ at Jimmy since the fight they had the other day, he doesn’t think it’s any of her or the world’s business. She describes Stan as used up and stand-offish, while Jimmy is described as easy-going and exuberant. He scowls. The article was posted four hours ago, and Cartman has sent him multiple voicemails about it, _screaming_ at him to get his shit together.

Stan hasn’t called him back and he knows if he doesn’t, Cartman will show up at their loft. He said he wants them to do some _team_ bonding, whatever the fuck that means. Stan knows it’s just a ploy to get them back into the recording studio, which Jimmy and Leo have apparently refused to do. Token is pissed too because they are wasting his time, along with Bebe, the studio manager, who Cartman is trying desperately to coax into allowing them more studio time without paying for it.

The whole thing is a big shit show, and Stan is so ready to just move to fucking Canada or something, never to be seen again.

His phone rings and he sees its Cartman, again. He reluctantly answers, “uh, hi.”

“ _Finally,”_ Cartman exclaims. “Stanley — what the _fuck?”_

Stan sighs and pulls the phone from his ear as Cartman screams and screams about the interview, recording session, and everything else. As he does so, his door opens and Kenny walks in. He furrows his eyes at the phone and then Stan, but as he steps closer, he hears the screaming and laughs gingerly.

He picks up the phone from Stan and hangs it up. Stan puffs out his cheeks, “he is just going to call back — or worse, come over here.”

“Whatever. Fuck him.”

“Yeah,” Stan agrees, taking his phone back. He gets a notification that something has been posted on the band’s instagram. He goes to take a look, and sees it is a post made by “himself” aka their social media consultant. It says _Thinking about how great our fans are, and how much support we receive from them. Also thinking about how much support I receive from my fellow band mates. I am so excited to share this album with you guys. It’s coming together so well and we are really exploring a wide range of sounds. Xx Stan_

Stan shakes his head and exits out of the app. So many of those posts are their Social Media Consultant trying to make up for shitty interviews. Most of the time _Stan_ is blamed for these shitty interviews.

Kenny seems to have gotten the notification too, for he stares down at his phone, reading. After a few more seconds, he looks up with a small smile, “wow, Stan, thanks, I am grateful for your support too.”

“Fuck off,”

Kenny snickers as he marches forward to sink down next to Stan in bed. They both just look at each other a moment, and Stan thinks that Kenny’s smile is far too vibrant for him. He doesn’t deserve it. He looks away.

“Did you read the article?” Stan sighs.

“Yeah,”

“I’m so sick of these stupid fucking reporters,”

“She was a _cunt.”_

“She was, but people just think I’m the tool. I’m just so sick of it.”

“I’m sorry, dude,” Kenny frowns, “but to be fair, you are kind of a tool.”

Stan sends him a glare and Kenny begins to snicker. He holds up his hands, “kidding… but I think you should say something to Jimmy.”

“Like _what?”_

“Just — I don’t know, that you like his stuff? We just, we need to get back into the studio, dude. We just need to get this done with so we can exist beyond this shit.”

Stan sucks in a breath and purses his lips. He knows his friend is right, but the thought of doing this just sounds so terrible. He feels a hand on his shoulder suddenly and shifts his head to meet Kenny’s stare. The blonde’s lips elicit a smile again; this one different than before, but all the same radiance — all the same _undeserving._

“We both know you’re stuff is better, but we also both know that you’re past this shit,”

Stan sighs, and drops his head. Kenny lets go of his shoulder and Stan misses the feeling of warmth that leaves with it. “You really think my stuff was better?” He eyes the bedding.

_“Hell yeah,”_ Kenny concurs, “way better — you’re a fucking genius.”

“ _Was.”_

_“No,”_ Kenny corrects. _“Are.”_

Stan feels the corner of his lips turn upright. Something in his chest swells. He doesn’t know why Kenny is so nice to him when he is just a piece of shit. He puffs out a rattled breath, “sometimes I just feel like these anti-depressants block me from producing … _anything.”_

“Just because you can’t produce that emo, depressive shit anymore, doesn’t mean you’re not a genius still. The song you wrote was _really_ good.”

“Cartman disagreed. He thinks Jimmy’s stuff is better — His stuff is a new style too, it doesn’t make any sense to me,” he shakes his head.

“Don’t spend your time trying to understand that son of a bitch. You’ll break your brain, and then you _actually_ won’t be able to produce anymore beautiful music,”

Stan snickers and lifts his gaze to meet Kenny’s amber eyes again. They light up in a way that makes his stomach flip. He wants to say more, say something that expresses his level of gratitude, but all he can come up with is, “you know, I _am_ grateful for you, Ken.”

“I’m grateful for you too, Stanley,” Kenny smiles, “more than you know.”

The words stay with him, burying at the ends of his stomach and curling up into a ball like a cat. He feels warm and gooey. He doesn’t know what to say so instead he just nods and says, “you too.”

X.

With timid steps, he makes his way to his band mate’s room. Unlike Kenny, he presents a knock before entering. It takes a couple seconds, but soon, Jimmy opens it. He looks at him with a frown and a hardened glare.

“Y-yes?”

“Can I come in please?”

Jimmy looks around, as if debating his choices, but steps from the entrance and moves to take a seat in his swivel chair by his desk. Stan takes this as an invitation to enter. He drags his feet inside, closing the door behind him, and takes a seat on one of the red gaming chairs in Jimmy’s room.

He sucks in a breath. He is going to have to start talking first, for Jimmy just stares at him with expectant eyes.

“I just came in to say… I didn’t mean to insult you, or your music the other day. I … it’s good music. You’re a good composer…”

Jimmy’s eyebrows rise slightly. He slowly nods and his eyes shut as he gazes to the floor. “T-T-Thank you.”

“I just… Um, I’m…,” Stan fiddles with his hands. He doesn’t know what to say. In all honesty, he still thinks Jimmy is a dick. They used to be good friends, but Jimmy just thinks he is a mess now. Jimmy is _perfect._ Fame doesn’t get to him. While he is a drummer, and the spotlight is less on him than Stan as the lead singer, all his headlines are _positive._ He thinks of the stupid post made by the social media consultant and his conversation with Kenny. “Your support means a lot and I’m very grateful that you’ve managed to come up with stuff for the album.”

“O-O-Okay,” Jimmy concedes. “A-a-and?”

“And what?” Stan glances at him with slight irritation in his tone.

  
“A-a-aren’t you going to a-a-a-pologize?”

“Aren’t _you_ going to say something? It’s not like you’re completely innocent, Jimmy.”

Jimmy shakes his head and looks away. “I knew this was b-b-b-bull-shit. You just come in here and give me this half-ass, non-apology, and e-expect this to be resolved? I’ve been p-puh-putting up with your shit for far too long. Butters and I both agree you are a-a-arrogant and treat us like sh-shit.”

Stan shakes his head. “I do _not,_ I just have been busy with my own shit, Jimmy.”

“Stan, I know you think that g-g-going to rehab, solved all your problems, but it hasn’t. You still f-fucking acted like a jerk.”

“I _apologized._ I’m trying to change. I haven’t picked up a drink in six months.”

“I’m j-j-just saying, you don’t get to just apologize and e-e-expect everything to be better, and it doesn’t h-h-help when you act like a d-dick over and over again.”

  
Stan scoffs and stands up. “Whatever. Fuck you. I tried to work it out with you, and you’re obviously not having it. So let’s just _finish_ this album, and be done with it.”

“F-f-fine by me,” Jimmy retorts.

  
Stan lets out an aggravated scoff before leaving the room. He is so _over_ his band mates.

X.

Stan retreats to his bedroom for the rest of the night. At one point, he opens his laptop again and pulls up old videos of Crimson Dawn on YouTube. He watches interviews and live performances, feeling he _is_ the washed up artist the reporter called him.

Sometime between his third and seventh video, Kenny pops into his room for the second time today. He flicks on his light, as Stan had it off, and plops down on the end of the bed. He lays on his stomach and holds his chin up with his hands. “You talk to Jimmy?” He asks.

Stan has paused the video but he keeps his eyes on the screen. He eyes the _Kenny_ on screen. It is obvious that he was on something at the time. Guilt prods him. He was too busy being hammered or depressed to help with Kenny’s downfall. He draws in a breath, “yes.”

“I’m assuming it went swimmingly with that tone of voice.”

Stan flicks his eyes from the screen to the blonde at the end of his bed, unable to keep his lip from curling upward at the cheesy smile Kenny wears. He licks his lips, “he is just an _asshole,_ dude, but I think… I think he’ll at least head back to the studio.”

“I guess that’s all we can ask for,” Kenny crawls up beside him, laying in the spot next to him. “You reading more stenny porn?”

“What?” Stan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “I never read any of it to begin with.”

“What? Why not?” Kenny pouts, eyebrows tilting inward. “You don’t think I’m hot?”

Stan’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He stutters as he says, “I’m just _not_ reading that shit, dude.”

“I sent you like 17 different links. I’m sure you could have found one to suit your fancy,”

“My fancy is _not_ reading porn about us,”

“And instead you watch old videos of us?” Kenny peers at the video screen. “That’s what gets you off?”

“None of this —,” he bows his head down, knowing blush coats his cheeks, “I’m not _getting_ off.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m just … I don’t know, watching old interviews…”

“Well, where was _my_ invite?”

  
Stan glances over to him with a smirk to his pink lips. “You want to watch old interviews with me, Kenny?” He asks.

“I would _love_ to, Stanley,” Kenny scoots closer to him. Their thighs touch and Stan tries to not think too much into it, his heart fails to get the notice and beats rapidly. Kenny leans against his side and Stan places the laptop on their laps.

He is suddenly very aware of his own breathing and attempts to make it sound _normal._ He plays the video. The interview dates back to 2016, their second _album_. The album they are being interviewed about was called _Cut Out._

The interviewer asks, “what did you mean when you said you wanted to rip your throat out?”

The Stan on screen says, “well, I was living with my dad when I wrote it, and I wanted to cut out my throat so he would stop talking to me, essentially.”

The Stan and Kenny on screen snicker together, and while it _sounds_ like light-hearted laughter, Stan knows that they just laugh because they are drunk and high. Coils knot in his stomach. He frowns. He was more personable when he was drunk. He used to take shots before 11 am interviews so he could get through them. At the time it didn’t seem like much of a problem, but seeing it now was a completely different story. It makes him feel shameful but also makes him yearn for the times he _was_ likable. When he was drunk all the time, at least in the _beginning,_ when he still had a handle on his drunkenness, he handled the press better. He handled the fans better. He handled his words and lyrics better. Alcohol was both his weakness and strength.

He sucks in a breath as the interview continues, and Stan isn’t sure if Kenny is tired, or senses his unease, but he rests his head onto his shoulder. The simple gesture for now ceases his feelings of unease. He will get through this. He has to.


	6. back to the studio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, i’m sorry all these chapters are so short. :)
> 
> IDK why I even post them as chapters when they are so short, I just do. THIS IS SO DUMB! Punch me in the gut. The next chapter MIGHT be longer, but im not gonna make myself a jackass and make faulty promises. ALSO i feel like 3 people read this so hi, sorry im a mess. :) ENJOY
> 
> Thanks so much for reading :)

The return to the studio is as awkward as Stan predicted it would be. An eeriness hangs among them, and it’s only makes it worse that their producer, Token, stands in the corner of the room with his arms crossed and no indication of what he is thinking. It seems that at least their recording engineer and recording engineer assistant have somehow managed to get along now. Stan cannot say the same thing for him and _his_ colleagues.

While him and Jimmy are able to perform in the same facility without killing each other, they are definitely mentally at odds. The tension in the air is so thick that as Stan sings the words on the sheet Jimmy wrote, he fears he will choke. Eventually Token leaves, but is replaced with a much worser presence, Cartman. He watches them with an annoyed, flustered look. Stan swears that when Cartman looks at _him,_ his glare hardens.

In between one of the songs, Kenny rests a hand on his shoulder, passing him a water bottle. “Just a few more hours, dude.”

While he is right about this recording session being done in a few hours, it doesn’t matter. He will go home, lay down for a couple of hours, fall asleep, and wake up and do the same shit the next day and the day after that. He is constrained to this life-style for as far as he can see down this deep dark tunnel. It may just be a few more hours _today,_ but it’s more than a thousand hours in total of what’s ahead of him.

He frowns as he untwists the bottle cap, staring down at the liquid, wishing it was something stronger than water. He senses Kenny’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t look up because he knows if he stares into those amber irises, Kenny will know something is wrong. He takes a sip and lets out a small sigh. Without even needing to meet his gaze, Kenny knows something is up.

“You okay?”

He lifts his head up to meet Kenny in the eyes. No, he really is _not._ He feels he is on break of collapse any day now, the alcohol just waiting to consume him entirely. “I don’t know.”

“So, no, then?”

He huffs out some air and takes another sip. “Just so sick of this shit, ya know? I just… want out.”

“I know,” Kenny agrees, picking his head up to eye Cartman and Jimmy talking in the control room. “But what we have, what, six songs? We basically only need four more, and the album’s done.”

Stan scoffs, “as if Cartman will be fine with 10 songs. You know he wants at least 12.”

“I don’t know, it’s different this time…”

While Stan knows it’s true, he knows it doesn’t matter. Cartman doesn’t care who is writing the music, as long as he gets his money. “I don’t think he cares.”

“Maybe I can suck his dick and change his mind.”

“Dude, Gross. You’re going to make me barf,” he winces, closing his eyes, but immediately regretting it after picturing the scene behind closed eyelids. He never thought he could repulsed by Kenny sucking someone’s dick. But he never pictured the receiver as Cartman. Although the more he thinks about it, the thought of anyone receiving a blow job from Kenny repulses him. He doesn’t want Kenny sucking _anyone’s_ dick — the thought seems wrong and fills him with thick unease that matches the tension in the room.

“I give _real_ good head, and we both know he’s secretly gay.”

“Stop — seriously,” he begs as he shakes his head.

“Hey, if you get sick, we get to go home early — that’s a win.”

Stan finally flutters his eyes open to connect aqua with amber. “I doubt it. I don’t think anything could get us out of this recording studio — even if there was a bomb threat or something — Cartman would somehow make it work.”

“Dark, dude,” Kenny retorts.

Stan shrugs. He supposes he could have said it in a lighter tone, instead of dripping it with the eternal dread and doom he feels, but he really just doesn’t have the energy today, or any day, really.

Shortly after, they start back up, and several hours later, they finish for the day. It’s at this point where Cartman announces to them all that they will be attending a party on Friday.

“I want you there. You _will_ be there, and you _will_ appear to have fun. I do _not_ want to see any more bad headlines,” he glares at Stan as he says so. “This is a big Hollywood party, and I will _not_ be embarrassed. Miley Cyrus _and_ Billie Eilish are supposed to be there — a bunch of other way better performers are supposed to be there, so don’t fuck this up.”

Cartman leaves before anyone can dispute. Jimmy and Leo look rather excited, but Kenny and Stan share an eerie glance. Parties are really not great places for them to be. Stan has been to one since recovery and while it went _okay,_ it was still a struggle. He also was doing way better at the time than he is now. Kenny, who has been recovering longer than he has, has been to a couple, but Stan remembers Kenny being very quiet the whole time.

They do not say anything to each other about it right now. Maybe because there is not much to say — their whole lives are directed for them. They merely just have to follow commands. As they walk out of the studio room and into the control room, Craig walks over to them with a strange smile that puts them both off because Craig _never_ smiles at them.

“Hey, so…,” Craig starts, “I overheard… and I just… well, Tweek is a _huge_ fan of Billie, and would kill me if I didn’t ask…”

Craig doesn’t say anything after, causing Stan to say, “ask what?”

Craig’s smile straightens out into a flat line. “Come on, you know.”

“Ya, we know, honey, but you still gotta beg,” Kenny snickers.

Stan smiles, always amused by Kenny.

Craig rolls his eyes and exhales through his mouth. “ _Fine._ Can Tweek and I accompany you to this party?”

Kenny and Stan shift their gazes to each other and shrug. “If you want. It’s going to be lame though,” Stan says. “All those Hollywood parties are lame, and you hardly ever meet the person you want; then when you do, you don’t _remember,_ and you find out later that you said some fucked up shit to them to make them hate you.”

Craig furrows his eyebrows at him and Kenny stares with squinted eyes as he tugs on Stan’s elbow, “alright, honey, let’s get you to bed —,” he moves his hand to his lower back, unexpectedly shooting chills up Stan’s spine despite the fabric between them. Kenny looks up to Craig and says, “you can come — but don’t be a dork about it.”

“A dork? I’m never a dork,”

“Right,” Kenny scoffs as he steps away from the recording engineer, “I follow Tweek on instagram, and I know damn well you’re the one obsessed with Eilish.”

“Fucking Tweek,” they hear Craig grumble out as they walk out of the recording studio and into the hallway. Kenny lets go of Stan as the trot away, and Stan immediately notices the feeling of elation that leaves with the disappearance of his touch.

Their loft is not too far from the recording label. Sometimes they will take a cab or uber home, but most nights, such as tonight, they walk. Stan has begin to realize these walks are _usually_ the best parts of his day. He almost looks _forward_ to them which is strange. It doesn’t seem like most would look forward to having to walk a mile home after work.

As they walk, their hands brush against each other, almost entangling by accident. They shift away to avoid it further and Kenny clears his throat to ask, “are you going to be able to go to this party?”

“Does it matter?” Stan laughs humorously. “Don’t think I have much of a choice.”

“We could always dress up Craig and Tweek like us — they already have the hair down.”

“Yeah, well, I think the height would be pretty off…”

“Tall people,” Kenny sighs.

“Hey… I’m tall… I’m like _as_ tall as Tweek.”

“He’s at _least_ two inches taller than you, dude,”

“No way — that’d make him, like, 6’1,”

“You’re, like, 5’10. He’s probably like 6’. I’m like 5’8, so if you and Tweek are the same size — I guess we are too.”

“Doesn’t make any sense.”

“Exactly.”

“Shut up, dude,” Stan snickers.

“I made you laugh for the first time all day, and you’re going to tell me to shut up?” Kenny looks over to him with lit up eyes and a wide grin.

Stan’s snickers simmers down to a smile as their eyes connect. His stomach flips at the sight. He licks his lips, the air feeling strangely drier tonight. “I’ll stop telling you to shut up when you stop saying stupid shit.”

“Okay, that shouldn’t be a problem, considering most of what I say is pure genius, so,” Kenny’s shifts his head to the space before them as they continue to walk. They stop at a corner and wait for the walking man to appear on the signal.

Stan stares at him, swallowing. His profile is perfect. _Kenny_ is perfect. He is easily the most handsome person Stan has ever seen and he’s been in face of many celebrities, but none can compare. “Yeah, you’re right,” Stan mumbles, staring back at the signal.

He feels Kenny staring back, but he doesn’t meet his gaze as the signal changes to the walking man. He begins in stride again, Kenny following shortly behind. On the way home, with Kenny, he feels much lighter than before; believing in himself that he will be able to handle this party ahead of him, and maybe everything else too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every day I’m like why did I make this a multi-chap and not a one shot, but idk sorry these chapters are so short lolololololol
> 
> TW: alcohol/drug addiction

He felt anxious the whole day about it. He wanted nothing to do with any Hollywood party, but his life wasn’t his own. It was owned by someone by the name of Eric Cartman and alcoholism. He was a puppet to these things; controlled by tight strings, ridged with each pull. He wondered if Cartman wanted him to relapse. He certainly liked his music more when he wasn’t sober. When he got out of rehab, he said, congratulations, did you write anything? And then immediately set him back on tour, obviously annoyed they got off track.

Stan was so sick of this life. He was sick of the tabloids. He was sick of the schedules. He was sick of waking up to deal with just another day. He wanted to hop on a plane and never return. He wanted to run from miles. He never wanted to see that damn Hollywood sign that mocked him every time he walked outside again; a reminder he was in hell.

Their publicist picked out his outfit for the night. He wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or irritated that he didn’t even have control over the clothes on his back. He thought of this ass he pulled on his black, overly expensive jeans; just another symbol of the loss of control he had over himself. With every button, he felt another part of himself fade – the Stan Marsh of Crimson Dawn taking his place. He was nearly a shadow to himself now; clinging on in desperation to stay in touch.

He supposed he looked better this way. In the dark clothes. He supposed it matched his insides more than his favorite bright blue hoodie and Terrance and Philip graphic-tee.

His phone rang.

He picked it off his bed and when he saw who it was, his eyebrows furrowed. He picked up and greeted the man. “Hey, dude.”

“Hey, Stan.”

The voice was nice and familiar. It made him remember that he was Stan Marsh for a moment; Stan Marsh from South Park, quarterback of the football team and best friend of the resident Jewish kid. “What’s up?” Stan asked.

“Not much… Uh. Kenny told me you’re going to a party tonight?”

He supposed he wasn’t surprised. The two were always speaking of him. He was pretty sure Kyle and Kenny actually talked more often than he did with Kyle, but he just didn’t have the energy. He didn’t have the energy to continue a conversation over text or pick up the phone. He felt guilty about it, but Kyle was never one to truly get his mental weaknesses.

“Yeah… all part of the job.”

Another thing Kyle didn’t get. He didn’t understand what he _had_ to do for this career. He thought that Stan could just say no at any point. He tried to convince him to quit many times, but Stan would lose so much. He was in a contract. Kyle was convinced he could help him get out of it, but Kyle wasn’t even a lawyer yet. He was convinced another lawyer could too, but the contract was binding. No escape.

“You should stay home.”

“I would, if I could, but that’s not exactly up to me.”

“Why the fuck would that fat fuck want to put you in danger of relapsing again?”

“I don’t know. He’s the devil reincarnate?”

He heard a sigh; a sigh filled with disappointment. Kyle wanted him to take control of his life. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know if he would be able to even accomplish that.

“Just be… _careful,_ and keep an eye on Kenny too… I’m — you guys worry me.”

  
He shut his eyes. He knew this already. Hearing it somehow made it worse. “Thanks. I gotta get going. I’ll see you.”

“See you.”

He hung up and finished getting ready. Their publicist took a few shots of them for their social media pages and he stiffly stood by his other bandmates. Cartman picked them up in a limo and Stan watched as the others in the limo downed their champagne, enjoying themselves. Kenny refrained from doing so. He nudged him with his knee and said, “you can drink… you know.”

Kenny shrugged and waved. “Nah. It’s fine.”

He noticed Kenny didn’t drink around him. He appreciated it but he also hated to be the reason he didn’t. He huffed out a breath and stared at the tinted black window; barely seeing the glow of lights pass by them on the busy street.

The limo ride was too short. They arrived too soon. Stan wasn’t ready. He sat in the limo as the rest piled out. As Kenny began to crawl out, he shot him a frown. “You okay?” He asked. His sweet, warm brown eyes scanning over him.

He looked at Kenny. He looked nice. The publicist dressed him up in a patterned grey button up and a leather jacket over top; along with black slacks. He looked good, but not like Kenny. Not the bright eyed Kenny from high school; one with sparkles in his eyes despite the bags, the one who somehow was always the most energetic, despite getting the least of sleep. Perhaps it was just from all the monsters. The sparkle in his eyes was replaced by the same dead look Stan thought he probably had.

He frowned.

“Are you?”

A smile panned out slowly across the blonde’s face. A sad smile that pained his heart. “Not really, but not like my opinions matter.”

“They matter to me,” was his response; low and hushed words exchanged between them, Kenny staring with wonderful amber eyes and a sad, deeply sad smile. Kenny stared a moment longer; a slight sparkle possibly shining through.

“I know that.”

Before Stan could say anything else, they heard Cartman calling them. Kenny widened his smile at him, winked and stepped out of the limo. Stan begrudgingly followed, swallowing as he stepped outside and came in visual with the mansion — vibrating with music and energy that Stan was incapable of matching.

He trailed behind with Kenny, every now and then Cartman peering over to them to make sure they were coming. Stan briefly thought of Craig, wondering if he was here with his husband. He wondered what it was like to actually _want_ to be here.

When they stepped inside, his feelings worsened as his eyes scanned around the dark lit room, strobe lights occasionally going off. His eyes landed on the various bottles of alcohol just scattered around the room. With just a few steps, he would be able to come in contact with one; pick one up and-

“You want to dance?” Kenny asked.

  
Stan stared at him with wide eyes. They _just_ got here, and Stan really only danced when intoxicated. Kenny seemed on edge though; something about him more jittery than usual, perhaps the way he bit his lower lip or how his foot was tapping on the ground.

“Sure.”

Kenny grabbed his hand and took them to the crowded area in which people were dancing. The song that was playing was some remix of Post Malone; one of Kyle’s favorite artists. Kenny dropped his hand once they began to dance, and he strangely missed the warmth of his hand, even if it was just around his wrist. He eyed Kenny; the light jumping up and down off his features; his round, brown eyes and long, slender nose. He was truly an attractive individual.

They danced for a while. Every now and then, someone would bump into them, shoving them closer and closer as the dancing crowd filled with more people. Soon, Kenny was only an inch away from him. He wasn’t sure how to react when he felt a hand pressed to his hip — Kenny’s hand. He went to grab his waist, a knee-jerk reaction, when someone spilled their drink and it splashed all over them; dragging them out of their bubble.

The culprit began to immediately apologize but the smell of alcohol was on him. He didn’t care about the wetness or the stickiness. It was the smell. Stan couldn’t help from shouting, “what the fuck, dude!?” At the culprit.

“I’m sorry, sorry, dude, sorry,” the culprit said, but they were drunk, and they clearly were not going to help him get cleaned up.

Kenny grabbed him by the wrist again, the warmth returning, and said “let’s find a bathroom.”

They slithered through the crowd up the staircase. Kenny opened a variety of doorways all while the scent of alcohol lingered all around him; tempting him, pressuring him, taunting him. Kenny finally opened a door that led to a bathroom, but the sight that greeted them was not a pleasant one. Three people were curled over the sink, snorting lines of cocaine.

This snapped Stan back to reality. He looked over to the blonde; his stunned, _blank_ face. He swallowed. “Come on,” he grabbed his wrist. “Let’s just get some fucking air.”

Stan was the one that led him this time. As strong as the scent of alcohol was and as loud as his brain _was,_ he had to focus on Kenny. He found the back door and led them out to the back porch. A crowd of people lingered outside, smoking.

He walked up to them and asked for two cigarettes. They lit them both for him and he brought one back to Kenny. He handed it to him and Kenny took it silently, setting it between his lips to take a long drag.

“Fuck dude. This — this is such bull _shit,”_ Stan huffed out. “Are you okay?” He asked the blonde who still looked completely dazed.

“Yeah… I’m fine. I just,” he shook his head. He eyed Stan, looking him up and down. “Are you?” He asked.

“Not really.”

“Dude,” Kenny shook his head and shut his eyes shut. “Fuck this.”

Stan cocked his head.

“Let’s leave.”

“Uh, I mean, yeah we were here long enough — whatever I’m sure Cartman won’t even notice.”

“No, I mean. LA. Let’s leave LA. Let’s… let’s visit Kyle,” he turned to him, brightness in his amber eyes.

Stan stared at the blonde with raised eyebrows, pulling the cigarette from his lips to blow out some air. “We have a recording session tomorrow…”

“Who cares? Let’s just go.”

Maybe it was the way Kenny grabbed his wrist, or the desperate look in his amber eyes that begged him to say yes, or the pure hatred he felt towards this city and lifestyle, but he nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do it. Tonight.”

“Tonight,” Kenny repeated. A smile. A promise.

  
Then, just like that, the night got better.


	8. Chapter 8

They took an uber from the party. The uber-guy recognized them and Kenny did his best to do casual conversation, but he was honestly still on edge from the party. Although, most of his life consisted of pretending to be okay when he wasn’t, so he supposed it easy enough. The uber took them back to their shared flat. Kenny requested him to stay and give them a ride to the airport as well, offering a hefty tip as a result. The uber agreed.

Kenny wasn’t in the mood to have to deal with another person. At least with this Uber, he already had gotten past the starstruck gasp and peddling of questions. He packed his bag as Stan packed his. This was probably the most spontaneous thing he’s done in awhile. He’s sort of disbarred himself from doing anything spontaneous because it usually led to trouble. However Kyle Broflovski was the least bit of troubling things out there.

He supposed he would get in trouble though; with Cartman and the rest of his bandmates, maybe even with their producer, but Kenny didn’t care. They needed this. Maybe it would even encourage Stan to write some songs.

He met Stan at the front of the flat.

“You got your meds?” Kenny asked.

“Yes,” Stan sighed.

“Don’t _yes_ me,” Kenny mocked the sigh he gave. “You forget them all the time dude.”

“Maybe its my subconscious revolting against them.”

“Well, tell your subconscious to shut the hell up.”

They walked down to their uber and piled into the backseat. The uber guy was much quieter on the second trip as Kenny hunched over his phone, looking for plane tickets to Providence. He finally found one which left in three hours which was fine.

“Should we just show up at Kyle’s place as a surprise?”

“I feel like we can’t — I mean, they probably have like the _first_ door to the building, and then _Kyle’s_ door — which I actually don’t even know what number he is at… or what his apartment building, if I’m being honest.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Stanley,” Kenny shook his head as he put in his information to pay for the tickets. “If you’re not careful, I’m gonna steal that super best friend card away from you.”

“I’m sure Kyle would be glad to hand it over.”

Kenny picked his head up to give him a look of concern. Stan gave him only a small, timid smile, as to play it off as a joke. Kenny furrowed his eyebrows to ask _why._

“I’m quite the hassle of a super best friend,” he breathed out, looking to his hands in his lap.

Kenny frowned. He knew he talked to Kyle more often than Stan did. Kyle told him as much, but he knew Kyle _was_ reaching out. He knew _he_ could never replace whatever bond he and _Stan_ had. He used to be jealous of it, but now, he felt grateful to not be tied to such a tight bond with the two. He developed a _different_ bond with Stan as a result. At least to Kenny, it felt _different._ It felt like something could happen between them.

Although, he was pretty sure Kyle was asexual anyways, never showing the least bit of interest in anyone. Kenny thought he was pretty observant of a person and would _know._ He’s also known Kyle since pre-school. His connections never went behind emotion or mental interest.

He also had predicted Stan to be bisexual, back in high school. A couple years ago, Stan made out with some random dude at a party and said that it was _fun,_ and from that point onward, occasionally would bring up men he thought were hot. He supposed he never _came out – came out_ and hardly ever actually talked about it, but it gave Kenny an inkling of hope, nonetheless.

When they got to the airport, they shuffled out of the uber and headed to check-in. Stan insisted on paying him back, but Kenny waved him off, refusing to reveal the ticket price. After a long line of security, they found their zone and took seats to wait for their plane.

  
They still had a good two hours before it set off.

“Kyle would be proud of us,” Stan said.

“He would, and proud of _me,_ specifically for planning this whole thing,” Kenny concluded. He looked over to Stan. The airport was less crowded than Kenny had seen in the past which made him grateful. Still though, people were staring. People were _always_ staring at them. “You should probably tell him were coming.”  
  


Stan hesitated. He slumped his shoulders, “I mean, shouldn’t you? You talk to him way more.”  
  


“I feel like he would appreciate it more if it came from you.”

“That’s not true at all Kenny,” Stan cocked his head.

Kenny was unsure if Stan was really that dumb or was trying to make him feel better.

“It’s so fucking true, dude! I grew up with you two, watching you basically suck each other off since preschool. Don’t think because I talk to Kyle a _little_ more than you do, that it suddenly breaks that little everlasting bond you two have.”

Stan frowned. “You’re our best friend too.”

“Yeah, but it’s different, and you _know_ it.” Kenny gave him a pointed look.

They stared. He didn’t mean anything by the words. It was just how it was, but Stan still appeared saddened by them, evident with his frown and soft blue eyes. “I’m sorry… I feel like — I feel like that’s shitty that you’ve had to deal with us. I’ve never really thought about it until now but -,”

“Save it, Marsh,” Kenny pushed him lightly in the shoulder. “I don’t want to be part of your gay agenda.”

“You love gay agendas.”

“That’s true, but it’s fine. I have my own special relationship with both of you, and I like it how it is.”

The corner of Stan’s lips hiked into a smile. He _really_ liked how their relationship was. He liked having Stan in his life the way he was. He was pathetically scared of losing him; of their relationship _changing._ He wasn’t sure what would happen if they changed their relationship… wasn’t even positive Stan _wanted_ to. He swallowed and looked away.

“Just,” Stan sucked in a breath. “Just that you know how important you are — how special you are… to me. You’re not my super best friend, but… You’re something else, and… um, I don’t know — something just as good.”

A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed it. He glanced back at Stan, but he wasn’t looking at him. Kenny let himself take in Stan’s profile; his long jawline and perfect slope of his nose. His heart was dangerously close to breaking his ribcage with how hard it pounded. “You’re super _sexy_ friend.”

Stan bursted out in laughter; the tension of the moment fading as he turned to face him with a grin. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Kenny gave a smile back, patting Stan’s kneecap. “Good, that’s all I ever wanted, babe.”

They sat for the next hour until their plane began to call for zones and passengers to line up. He and Stan lined up and when the time came, filed their way into walkway and onto the airplane. If they were recognized, no one said anything to them which Kenny was thankful for.

It was late and he was tired. He was always willing to give time to fans, but after a night of being faced with his greatest weakness and a spontaneous trip to Rhode Island, he was pretty tired out. He and Stan store their carry-on bags on the overhead and took a seat. He let Stan take the seat by the window, even though it was impossible to see anything because it was nearly 1 am, and pitch black out.

The flight was four and half hours long and there arrival time was would arrive around 7:30 am _eastern_ time. The plane took off after everyone boarded. He chatted with Stan for some time before a wave of exhaust washed over his friend. He could see it in the way his eyes glazed over; his eyelids heavy and struggling to stay open.

“Here,” he patted his shoulder. “Get some rest, Stanley. You need to look good for Kyle.”

Stan chuckled and hesitated, but set his head onto the blonde’s shoulder. Kenny relaxed into it, or did his best, as his heart was racing. Stan soon fell asleep on his shoulder, his breathing evening out. Kenny eyed him; admired his dark and long eyelashes and the cute way he parted his pink lips. He always had thought Stan was cute. It was impossible not to. He had bluer eyes than the Atlantic and a smile that made him feel completely welcome and warm.

He nuzzled against the other boy, happy that he got some rest. He was happy and grateful that neither of them relapsed tonight. He knew if Stan hadn’t been with him — hadn’t dragged him out of there — he probably _would_ have because as much as he tried not to be, he was a fuck up. He got into drugs, like everyone predicted, and he let it consume him. He had forgotten to look over Stan; to keep him on track, to keep him from falling into alcoholism. He wasn’t the perfect friend. He wasn’t Kyle. He wondered if he was even a good suitor for the male whose head rested against his shoulder. He wondered if he was good enough _for_ him.

It was another reason he restrained himself from making a move; another valid reason, he thought. He just didn’t know how to transition; how to tell him; if he should. But as Stan rested his head against him like this, the soft locks of his hair brushing against his cheek, it felt _right._ He felt full; he felt like the bull shit was manageable.

He wanted to tell him. He wanted to, but maybe he was a pussy. He had been called courageous his whole life; although, nothing seemed scarier than possibly losing Stan — of telling him his feelings and him not feeling the same way.

Everything — it all just seemed so fragile; so convoluted.

Through his overthinking of the situation, he didn’t manage to fall asleep. Stan only woke when the plane had landed, the roughness of the landing waking him up. He picked his head off his shoulder and with that, the warmth; the fullness, faded. He was less whole without him there.

Stan looked cute upon waking up though; eyes a little pink and puffy; his eyebrows furrowed. “We’re here?” He asked.

“Just about.”

“I suck for falling asleep.”

“You do. I was hoping we could join the mile-high club.”

He noticed the blush. He always noticed the blush, but Stan was easily flustered. He would blush at any compliment thrown at him. Although, it didn’t used to happen, and that had to mean something, at least.

“Sorry to ruin your dreams.”

Kenny shrugged, “there is always the ride home,” he shot him a toothy grin.

More blushing. Stan looked away.

They slowly made their way out of the plane. They didn’t have any checked baggage so they did not need to head to baggage claim. It left them with questioning where to go. They stood in front of the airport. Kenny was the one to suggest calling Kyle since neither of them knew where he even _lived._

Stan pulled out his phone. He stared at the phone screen, thumb hovering over the call button on his best friend’s contact name.

“What if he isn’t happy to see me?” Stan asked.

“Are you insane, dude? He’ll jizz his fuckin’ pants. I’m tired of your bull shit -,” Kenny leaned over and pressed the call button.

Stan glared at him. “ _Kenny.”_

Kenny just gave a toothy smile back.

Within a couple rings, the other line picked up. “Stan — hey, what’s up? It’s like 5 am where you are. Are you okay?”

“Typical for you to think I’m in some fucked up shit.”

Stan turned on the speaker so Kenny could tune into the call.

“We’re in jail, and you need to break us out with your fancy-pants law degree.” Kenny leaned over the phone to speak.

“I don’t have a fancy-pants law degree yet, and this isn’t a call from jail. It would have told me. What’s going on?” Kyle asked.

They both laughed at the concern in their friend’s voice.

“So… It’s actually 8 am where we are,” Stan said. “We are in Providence. At the airport. Can we get a ride?”

“What?” They heard a laugh. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No, I’ll send you my location if you -,”

“I have your location already and I’m checking right — Holy shit! You’re actually here!” Kyle exclaimed on the other end.

“Yup!” Kenny beamed. “So you better get your cute lil’ ass over here.”

“Shit — dude. Okay. Could have given me some _warning,_ but yeah. Just… Give me a little bit. It might be like half-an-hour.”

With a short goodbye, they ended the phone call. Kenny smiled at Stan and Stan smiled back. This was going to be a good few days. He just knew it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very short!!!!! Anyways. Thanks for reading.

Kyle picks them up at the airport. Kenny takes the passenger seat and grabs ahold of his face, planting a sloppy and wet kiss on his cheek. Kyle replies with _sick, gross, dude_ , although he laughs. Stan slides into the backseat, smiling at the familiarity of Kyle’s 2003 Taurus that he’s had since he was 16. It belonged to an old elderly woman at Shady Acres who knew his grandfather. She sold it to Kyle for only 1000 dollars and it had 34,000 miles on it. She didn’t drive it much.

Stan imagines it has many more miles now, especially after the drive from Colorado to Rhode Island. Stan wishes he could have been there for that road trip, instead he was first being discovered at some downtown pub in Denver. He wonders if he went with Kyle, if he had accompanied him on his grand road trip, if he would ever have met fame.

Kyle was upset at first. Stan promised he would accompany him on the road trip, but back then, every gig felt like a blessing. He asked Kyle to move his trip back two days, but Kyle was adamant on not changing it.

He slightly wonders if the rift between them started there or if it happened in high school. He wonders if Kyle holds any resentment towards it now.

Instead of bringing Stan and Kenny, Kyle brought his brother Ike. After the initial fight, Kyle never mentioned the argument again. At the time, Crimson’s Dawn’s encounter with Eric Cartman, the talent agent who scouted them seemed like the biggest thing to ever happen to them — but it wasn’t until months later that they _really_ blew up.

By the time they began to reach stardom, they had already signed a contract with Eric. He was only a couple years older, but he seemed to know an immense amount of information about the industry. He said he had gotten screwed over many times before, and if they were going to sign with him, they were going to _sign_ with him.

There were gaps where Stan could have left, but by that point, he was too hammered and drunk to even really know what he needed. He was sober now and it was clear. He needed to get rid of Cartman.

He had over two dozen missed calls and text messages from his manager. Kenny hadn’t mentioned to him of any texts or calls from him, but he knew that Kenny was probably just trying to keep the mood — keep the _chill._ It’s what Kenny did; he ignored the situation in order to live in the moment.

Maybe Stan should just turn off his phone.

Kyle begins to ask them what encouraged them to come. Before Stan can even answer, Kenny is opening his mouth to speak, crossing his arms behind his head and slouching in the passenger seat. Stan watches his legs twitch. He is probably debating to piss off Kyle and put his feet on the dashboard. In the end, he doesn’t.

“We wanted to see your beautiful face, what other reason is there?”

Kyle scoffs. Stan watches him through the rearview mirror. One of his eyebrows raises. “Right. You could have just looked me up on Facebook.”

“It’s hardly the same, besides you never update your profile. I think the last picture you have is from your undergraduate graduation.”

Another _something_ Stan missed; Kyle’s undergraduate graduation. He looks down, maybe in shame, maybe to dodge Kyle’s reaction to the words. This is something that Kyle was upset with for a long time. Eventually, he got over it, he said, _it’s fine, Stan, really,_ in that very exasperated and exhausted manner Kyle got occasionally. It always made him feel like Kyle was so much older than him when he heard this tone of voice; it made him feel like he knew best; he was wise and Stan was not.

Stan missed it because he got drunk.

He got drunk the night before and it lasted until the morning; resulting in a missed flight. Kenny missed it too. In fact, he didn’t see Kenny for a couple days around that time; off on some bender. He wasn’t even sure what Kenny said to Kyle about it, or how they resolved things.

That was maybe the lower points of his life; his alcoholism. He had done worse, sure; he even got arrested a couple times for public intoxication and causing a havoc at a Whole Foods. Those were embarrassing, awful things that kept him in the headlines and had Cartman down his throat, but this thing with Kyle? Missing his undergraduate graduation? That was personal. That changed things. That made him feel like an awful, shitty person who didn’t deserve someone like Kyle in his life.

He rubs his forehead; Kyle and Kenny’s conversation fading in the background.

Part of the twelve step program was to make amends. He apologized to Kyle and Kyle forgave him, but he hasn’t forgave himself. He isn’t even sure if _Kyle_ really forgave him, truly. There is this _rift_ between them that he doesn’t know how to close. He isn’t sure if he _can._

He should talk to him more. He _really_ should, but he isn’t sure what it is. Maybe he just knows that he will disappoint him again. There have been so many times that he has almost relapsed again; tonight included. What other things will he do to Kyle to damage their friendship? Maybe this is why he is distancing himself. Maybe he is afraid if he gets too close, he’ll blow it up completely.

“Stan — Dude, did you hear me?” He hears his super best friend say.

Stan lifts his eyes to connect with the brown ones in the rearview mirror. “Sorry, what? I think I have jet-lag or something,” Stan rubs the back of his head.

Kenny laughs — his free spirited, high, and full laugh that doesn’t seem like it should belong to someone who has gone through so much shit. He turns his head to the blonde, who holds his stomach in laughter. “Stan, you fucking slept like a _baby_ on that plane — I watched you. It was so fucking cute, ya know? You snore a little bit, but honestly? That was cute too!”

Stan rolls his eyes, but blushes under the compliments, even if they are probably just jokes. So far Kenny has showered Kyle with compliments as well. He is not special. This is normal, and he needs to get over whatever weird, fucked up crush or whatever it is, he has on Kenny.

“Shut up. I can still have jet lag!”

Kyle shakes his head. “I asked if you want to stop somewhere to eat or if I should just head to my place.”

“Let’s just go to your place. I want to take a shower, I can still feel the alcohol on myself,” he scrunches up his face. He changed his clothes at home, but he didn’t shower; he didn’t rub the stickiness and destruction off him. He felt like it was acid, chewing down to his bones; leaving him as nothing.

  
“Wait, what?”

“Some bozo spilled their drink all over Stan,” Kenny quickly explains.

Maybe Stan should have been more clear. He hears his friend let out a deep breath. He looks out the window, unsure what emotion he is feeling right now.

“Fucking — Christ,” Kyle shakes his head. “I can’t believe you were _forced_ to go somewhere like that! What kind of fucking person —,”

“Can we just _please_ not talk about it?” Stan asks, eyes still on the window. The scenery is different in Rhode Island than California. For one, there are no Palm Trees. Two, there are way less large buildings. Three, their city capital is even smaller than _Denver._

It is kind of comforting in a way.

Kyle sighs but says, “Yeah. Yeah, I won’t say anything else.”  
  


Kenny turns his head back to him — his creamy, freckled face slotted between the head rest and passenger door. He clicks his eyes to him, and the freckled blonde smiles. It makes his heart plummet in his chest. Kenny’s smile is supportive; Kenny’s smile is caring; Kenny’s smile is all he needs to feel slightly better about the situation.

  
He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and offers a soft smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s so short; why don’t I write longer chapters? I D K! Too heavy
> 
> Anyways, there was a lot of Style Friendship in this and I think I’ve broke my heart writing it — that is why I can’t do long chapters. I NEED A BREAK


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo why didn’t I just make this part of the other chapter???? it’s also so short idk man I really don’t also there is a ton of k2 friendship in this chapter I’m sorry

Kenny sits at Kyle’s tiny kitchen table, watching as the redhead searches through his cupboards, fridge and freezer for food. The sound of the shower buzzes through the room, alongside Kyle’s murmurings of excuses to why he has almost _no_ food in his house — definitely nothing _vegan_ for their friend. Kenny thinks he is wasting his time, but Kyle seems adamant that he has _something._

Kyle pulls out a box of one-minute rice and turns to Kenny. He sets it on the counter with a _plop._ “Well, I have _rice,_ and then…” Kyle turns around to the cupboard and pulls down a can of kidney beans. He puts the can beside the box, “and beans… That could be good. It’s okay for Stan to eat.”

Kenny scrunches his nose up, “yeah, I had enough of these kind of meals when I was poor… How about we just go out? I’ll even _pay.”_

“I’m not poor!”

“I wasn’t saying you are!”

“I’m just not at home a lot…” Kyle grabs the can and box of rice to put back into his cupboard. Kenny eyes him skeptically. He knows Kyle is busy with college and his job as a paralegal, but is he really not home _that_ often to not even have food?  
  


“Oh, yeah?” Kenny leans over the edge of the table, linking his hands together. “Whatcha doing?” he asks.

Kyle takes the seat opposite of him. “A lot of work. A lot of school…” his eyes traveled down to the table surface.

Kenny lifts his eyebrow, watching him. Before he can inspect further, the coffee pot’s drip stops, signaling it is done. Kyle steps up, and as he does so, says, “sorry, I don’t have cream… Hope that’s fine.”

“Matter of fact… I have been drinking Iced Black Coffee lately. This one time, our recording engineer’s husband came to the studio with an extra. And it was actually _very_ good.”

Kyle scowls from his spot by the coffee pot. He pulls three mugs from the cupboard, setting them beside the pot. “Coffee shouldn’t be drank any other way than hot.”

“What? You don’t have _ice?”_

“I _have_ it. _Chill._ ”

“I will be as long as you have that ice, ” Kenny snaps his fingers at him with a wink.

Kyle picks his head up to send him a glare which Kenny chuckles to. Kyle continues to prepare their coffees. He fills Kenny’s cup up with ice before he pours the coffee over it, and then hesitates with the third cup.

“Does Stan take ice now?” he asks.

“Yeah. Honestly… I think it’s a Cali thing. It’s so fucking hot there, we need all the cooling down we can get.”

“Makes sense, but still _gross_.”

Kyle does the same thing with Stan’s cup as he did with Kenny’s. He brings the two iced coffees to the small table first, and then goes back to grab his own. Kyle takes his place across from Kenny. The shower continues to run in the background; filling the pockets of silence between them.

Kenny sips his coffee, noting that the iced coffee Tweek occasionally shows up with is better and way less bitter. But beggars cannot be choosers. He would probably drink gasoline right now if it could energize him further. He has been up for God knows how long now. He knows he has been up longer — definitely in his bender days. Sometimes he would be up for 72 hours at a time, but he feels like it’s all caught up to him now. All those lost hours of sleep have reached him and he is paying for it. The worst thing is that he knows the cocaine would he an easy fix – it would give him the energy he desperately needed these days.

He is constantly tired, and even _more_ exhausted on the days he doesn’t sleep. He sets the mug down and eyes Kyle again. As busy as he _claims_ he is, he looks good. His hair is trimmed shorter than it normally is and the tense expression that he usually holds is gone; replaced with something much more pleasant.

He squints his eyes at him.

“What?”

“What’s going on with you?”

“Huh?”

“You seem…” Kenny analyzes him more. He looks him up and down. Even the outfit he wears is more fashionable than his normal attire; although _wrinkled._ His hair is tousled as well. Kyle said that it would take him half-an-hour to the airport and it _did,_ but it took nearly an forty-five minutes for the return trip. “Are you getting _laid?”_ Kenny eyes go wide.

Kyle’s cheeks tint pink as he sets down his mug. “Don’t _word_ it like that. And don’t act so shocked.”

“Dude. It’s just,” Kenny grins, “I thought you were like — asexual, or something.”

“Why?”

“You hardly were into anyone in high school, or like _any_ time beyond that, that I know of.”

Kyle shrugs. “I mean… I’ve been out with a couple people, but I don’t know. They never last very long.”

“Not long enough to introduce to your famous, coke-addict friend?” Kenny pouts. “Or to even _mention_ to _?”_ Kenny places a palm on his chest.

Kyle rubs the back of his head and looks away, clenching his jaw.

“Oh shit — _have_ you mentioned them before?”

“It doesn’t matter. It was always nothing serious,” Kyle shrugs, turning his head to his friend. “This one isn’t that serious either.”

“I bet she — they? would _love_ to hear that.”

Kyle laughs, picking up his mug, “Honestly? Probably. She’s very busy as well. She’s best in our class.”

“You _would_ go for the smart ones _,”_ Kenny rolls his eyes. “Explains why you were never into me.”

Kyle laughs, and just as he does, the shower stops. Simultaneously, Kenny’s heart stops. Stan went into the bathroom without his duffle bag, meaning in a couple seconds he would be walking through the apartment with just a towel wrapped around his waist.

It’s been awhile since he’s gotten laid — probably a month, which for maybe _some_ people, was not long at all, but Kenny felt touch deprived. He glances over to the bathroom, awaiting for the door to click open. Just in case he is being super obvious, he looks back to Kyle, biting his thumb-nail.

“Who are _you_ seeing these days?”

“No one; I mean, honestly, I’ve been pretty celibate.”

Kyle snorts, shoulders jumping with the broad sound.

“I’m _serious.”_

“Right,” Kyle chuckles into his cup, “Kenny McCormick and _Celibacy_ are just two things that don’t quite make sense together.”

“Well,” Kenny shrugs, “I’m sure someone with a big of a brain as yours can eventually make sense of it.”

“You fall for someone?”

“What?”

“That’s the only time I’ve ever seen you celibate,” Kyle laughs as if it is a _joke._ As if this is somehow _funny_ when it really, really isn’t. “Remember when you were trying to get with Tammy? You literally put on a fucking purity ring.”

“That’s… _so_ different.”

“It’s not. You are the same every time, Kenny. It’s honestly what gives you away most.”

He cringes at the statement. Maybe this is true; however he thinks his feelings for Stan began longer than a month ago. He doesn’t think he ever tried to _repress_ feelings for anyone as much as he does Stan though. He moves onto his pointer finger’s nail to bite, and then, _the door clicks._

They both look over and there is Stanley Marsh — only a towel wrapped around his lower figure; water dripping off his raven locks and onto his shoulders; sliding over his chest and the various moles aquatinted with his fair skin.

He makes no effort to look away. Stan stares back with smacked lips and a slight-pink face. “Kyle — Jesus, dude — I had to like _scrape_ out that soap.”

“Bring your own next time, then. This isn’t a hotel,” Kyle rolls his eyes at his friend, turning his back to his steaming cup.

  
“It’d be a shit one if it was,” Stan shakes his head with a chuckle, walking into Kyle’s one bedroom to change.

Kenny eyes travel down his wet and slightly muscular back as he disappears into Kyle’s room. Once a quarterback, always a quarterback, apparently. Even though he is less fit than he was in high school, his body is still rocking.

He doesn’t realize how much he was staring until Kyle clears his throat. He looks to his redhead friend, whose eyebrows rise; a slight smirk to his lips. The knowing look in his eyes is loud enough. Kenny speaks before he can. “No soap in the shower, huh? Lemme guess — you take most of those at your non-serious lady friend’s place? Let me just tell ya Ky, once you start showering _without them_ at _their_ place – you’re hooked.”

Kyle’s eyebrows drop. He coughs, “I mean…,” he looks away with an eye roll. “No. I just need more... I haven’t gotten a chance to yet.”

Whatever Kyle was going to say about Stan - whatever was speaking in his eyes - is replaced with a change in topic as Kyle asks where he wants to eat. Kenny suggests good old’ breakfast food and Kyle immediately has a place in mind. Kenny reminds himself to be more aware of his actions on this trip with his very intelligent friend around. He also makes a note to get as much information as he can about the mystery lady Kyle speaks of – and that’s only _minimally_ because of guilt.


End file.
